by Aly Martinez
I timed my breathing with his, and within minutes, I was lightheaded. I couldn’t imagine how he was still upright.
Please, God. For as many times over the last three years that I’d bargained with the Lord in exchange for Travis’s health, I should have been a priest.
A vise wrenched my chest. The breathing treatment wasn’t helping. At least not fast enough.
A wave of dread rolled in my stomach. He was going to hate me. But I was the parent; it was my job to make the hard choices—even if they destroyed me. His pain and struggle coursed through my veins, too. This wasn’t only his fight. It affected us all. If anything ever happened to him, I’d have to carry that hole in my soul for the rest of my life.
I’d promised him that I’d take care of him. I hadn’t promised him that I’d be his friend while I did it. “Hannah, can you go grab Daddy’s cell phone?”
“No!” Travis choked.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his shoulder. “Buddy, I’m sorry.”
“I’m…not…going,” he wheezed.
I swallowed hard to pack the overwhelming emotion down. I had to be strong enough for all of us—regardless that parts of my heart were crashing to the ground.
I couldn’t go through this again.
But I couldn’t not go through it again, either.
“You have to go, Trav.”
On weak legs, he shot to his feet, but his balance was off and it sent him stumbling forward.
Lurching up, I caught him around the waist before he cracked his head on the vanity. The nebulizer clattered against the floor and the buzzing droned on as he fought against me.
His movements were sluggish and his hands were slow, but for the way each blow slayed me, he might as well have been a championship boxer. God knew I’d welcome a TKO if it would soothe him.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, dragging him into my chest.
“I hate you,” he cried, refusing to give up.
He didn’t. Travis loved me. I knew that was as true as the sky was blue. But, if he needed an outlet for his anger, I’d be it every single time.
I gave him a gentle squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t hug me back, but I didn’t need him to. I just needed him to keep breathing.
When Hannah reappeared with my phone, I guided Travis to sit on the toilet.
As expected, he was crying. I couldn’t fault him. I wanted to fucking cry too.
It wasn’t fair. None of it.
Lifting my phone to my ear, I hit send. As it rang, I bent, and scooped the plastic tubing up, and passed it back to my son. “Finish that and we’ll head to the hospital.”
He glared up at me, giving it the pre-teen attitude that seemed to be bred into kids, but he was too weak to properly snatch it from my hand.
A sleepy, “Hello?” came through the phone.
“Mom. Hey, can you meet me at the hospital to get Hannah?”
Her bed squeaked as she presumably climbed out of it. “How bad?”
I glanced at Travis, watching him sway with every breath. He refused me his gaze, but he was listening.
“Hannah, stay with your brother,” I ordered, walking out of the bathroom.
I didn’t answer her question until I was in my room. I went straight to my closet and changed into a shirt and jeans before slipping a pair of sneakers on.
“Pretty bad.”
“Oh God,” she whispered. “Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way. Hurry, but drive safe.”
I then moved to my dresser to collect my wallet and my keys. Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Yeah. Same to you.”
With a deep breath that I hoped would ease the hollow ache that never seemed to leave me anymore, I opened my eyes.
Catherine was staring back at me.
I wasn’t positive why I left that picture on my dresser. I’d told myself that it was for the kids. So they could feel like she was still a part of our lives, despite the fact that it was now only the three of us.
I picked the picture up. She was smiling at the camera, her brown eyes glistening with unshed emotion, Travis wrapped in a swaddling blanket, mere hours old, tucked into the crook of her arm. I traced my fingers over the top of his dark, unruly hair as if I could comb it down, but my gaze drifted to his mother. It had only been three years since she’d died, but so much had changed.
She’d have known what to do with Travis. How to heal him. Maybe not physically, but emotionally. I remembered the first time he’d had an episode. I’d raced around the house, calling 911 frantic while she’d calmly sat next to him, rubbing his back and whispering reassuring words into the top of his hair. She was in agony, but she kept it together for him, a skill that had taken me over three years to master. She’d always been so good at reading his mood and rationalizing with him to take his medications. If he’d needed something, she had known instinctively. I’d often thought that watching the two of them together was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.
She hadn’t bumbled. Or faltered. She’d been a rock.
I wasn’t like Catherine.
I was weak.
And exhausted.
And so damn scared.
But, even if it destroyed me, I would be there for him. That was one thing that would never change.
So, no. I wasn’t like Catherine at all.
When I heard the nebulizer turn off, I set the picture back on the dresser and stared my wife straight in the eyes as I whispered, “I hate you so fucking much.”
* * *
“I’ll send her in right away, Mr. Clark,” I said, backing out of the door, a wide smile stretching my lips.
It was fake—both the promise and the smile. I was exhausted. I’d been at the hospital for almost twenty-four hours, and sleeping stretched out between two rolling chairs had been exactly as restful as it sounded.
“Hey, Denise,” I called, strolling over to the nurses’ station, my tired feet screaming with every step. “Mr. Clark needs help to the bathroom.”
She looked up from the computer screen with a scowl. “You have lost your damn mind.”
I forced a grin, setting my clipboard on the desk and then flopping down into the chair beside her. Yawning, I pulled my disheveled hair into a ponytail.
I needed a haircut. Strike that. I needed a shower, a massage, a meal that was not prepared in the microwave, a week-long date with the backs of my eyelids, and then a haircut.
With my schedule, a unicorn sighting would have been more likely.
“Sorry,” I mumbled around another yawn.
She rolled her eyes so hard that her retinas fully disappeared. “If I go back in that man’s room, you’re going to have to perform the surgical reattachment of his hand.” She rocked back in her chair while crossing her arms over her chest. “I get it when the old-timers come in with dementia. They can’t help themselves. But that man is forty and his only ailment is a nasty case of smokes-two-packs-a-day-induced asthma. Last I checked, your lungs do not affect your cognitive abilities.” She paused and looked back at her computer, muttering, “Though the concussion I’m going to give that fool if he grabs my ass again will.”
It sounded like a joke, so I offered her a chuckle, hoping that it came off as genuine.
Meanwhile, I stared at my watch.
One hour.
The minute hand had finally caught up with me.
When I’d gotten the call about Mr. Clark being admitted, a large part of me hoped I’d get tangled up and lose track of time.
But, regardless of how desperately I tried, I’d never be able to forget that day.
With nothing left to celebrate, that day only served as a reminder that I’d survived another year in the darkness he’d left behind.
“Look… I, um,” I stalled. “I have to go. Can you please make sure someone gets in there to help him?”
On a dramatic gasp, she clutched her chest. “Dear God, is the world ending?” She glanced around the nurses’ stat
ion and asked everyone and no one, “Did Dr. Mills seriously just say she needed to go? It must be the rapture.” Lifting her hands up to the heavens, she rejoiced, “Praise Jesus, I’m right with the Lord!”
“Ha. Ha,” I deadpanned.
Okay. It could be said that I worked a lot. So much so that the running joke around the hospital was that I was a vampire who didn’t require sleep to survive. For my last birthday, the residents had all chipped in and bought me a life-size Ian Somerhalder cardboard cutout. Apparently, he played a vampire in a TV show or something. But considering I didn’t own a television, the humor was lost on me.
While my days were spent seeing patients at my office across town, my nights were all-too-often spent at the hospital. I was one of the few pulmonologists who came in any time a patient of mine was admitted. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust the on-call doctors—not exactly. They were talented. (Well, except Blighton. I wouldn’t let that idiot treat my goldfish. And I didn’t even have a goldfish.) My patients depended on me, and my peace of mind came with the knowledge that they were getting the best possible care I could offer them. If that meant I had to be available to them twenty-four-seven, so be it. Besides, it’s not like I had much else going on in my life.
The most exciting thing that had happened to me outside of medicine in the last year was the blind date my best friend had guilted me into with the son of her hairdresser. His name was Hal, and he was an accountant. And not the sexy-nerdy type. I’m talking the balding, boring, pocket-protector-wearing kind. I’d sneaked out of the bathroom window halfway through dinner, and the following Monday, Rita had been forced to find someone new to touch up her roots. Luckily, she’d appeared to have learned her lesson and hadn’t mentioned setting me up again.
I looked back at my watch.
Fifty-nine minutes.
After contemplating swinging through the infectious-disease lab to see if I could catch a dreaded—but curable—illness, I finally gave up and pushed to my feet. There was no way to avoid it. And the sooner I made an appearance, the sooner I could leave and put the entire day behind me for another year.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Denise.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her doing the sign of the cross as she called out, “Have a good one, Dr. Mills!”
As I waited for the elevator, nerves and dread brewed within me.
I could do this. It wasn’t my first rodeo. I just had to show my face. Slap a smile on. Offer a few hugs. And then get the fuck out of there.
Oh, and be gutted all over again. Too easy.
I groaned as I punched the button for the parking garage.
“Charlotte, wait!” Greg yelled, attempting to slide inside the elevator with me. He managed to get his upper body through before the doors closed. “Shit!” he exclaimed as the elevator went into some kind of accordion mode, repeatedly opening and closing on him.
I could have helped by pressing the Open Door button, but I didn’t. It was the most entertainment I was going to get all day.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I didn’t try to hide my grin as he continued his battle with the elevator.
“What the hell?” he growled.
The doors finally gave up and his lanky body fell inside, banging into the wall.
I choked on a laugh and barely managed to get out, “Are you okay?”
“Seriously?” He snatched the lapels on his white coat back into place.
“You…uh”—I cleared the humor from my voice before finishing—“might want to report that to maintenance. Real safety hazard.”
He narrowed his eyes, and it made my smile spread.
Nothing in this world gave me more pleasure than pissing off Greg Laughlin. It hadn’t always been that way. Greg and I had been close since medical school. He was smart, handsome, and even funny in a weird way. If I’d had any interest in men whatsoever back then, I might have considered dating him. Fortunately, I’d dodged that bullet.
He’d married our mutual friend, now office manager, Rita, while we were still in our residencies. Greg and I both specialized in pulmonology, and the minute we’d been able, it was a no-brainer to go into private practice together. He was a good doctor but, as it turned out, absolute shit for a husband.
Earlier that week, I’d found out that he was sleeping with my head nurse. Talk about awkward. Rita was heartbroken, my nurse had quit, and my only way to exact any kind of revenge on my partner was through the karma-controlled doors of a malfunctioning elevator.
“I’m glad you enjoyed that,” he snipped, finger-combing his thinning, brown hair.
“Oh, I truly did.” I laughed.
“I’ve been texting you all day.”
“I know. I’ve been avoiding you all day.”
His lip curled in disbelief. “You can’t avoid me.”
“Um…I’m pretty sure I can. Remember, I’ve been doing it all day?”
The elevator came to a stop and I stepped off into the parking garage—not surprisingly, so did he.
“Is this about Rita?” he asked incredulously. “Still?”
I stopped and slowly turned to face him. “Uh…you cheated on my best friend. With my nurse. I’m pretty sure there is no statute of limitations on how long I’m allowed to be angry about that.” I stabbed a finger in his direction. “Especially considering it’s only been a week.”
His head snapped back. “Jeez, you’re cranky today.”
I turned away and yelled, “Get used to it!” over my shoulder, my voice echoing off the concrete pillars.
“I wanted to make sure you’d be at the Fling this weekend.”
I came to a screeching halt and whirled back around. “What?”
“The Fling,” he clarified without actually clarifying anything.
“Yeah. I know what you said. But what do you mean this weekend?”
Every fucking year, Rita and Greg insisted on hosting this big Spring Fling for all of our patients and their families. It was a nice gesture, but Rita took it over the top. Face painting, bounce houses, carnival games.
Which meant: Kids. Kids. Kids.
Which meant: I avoided it at all costs.
“I…I thought that was at the end of the month?” I remembered because I’d specifically put in for a four-day vacation to ensure I wouldn’t have to attend.
“No. We had to bump it up after the venue decided to schedule construction for that weekend. Last I heard, Rita was still scrambling to find a new caterer, but we at least have a new location.”
I blinked, doing my best to keep my expression passive so as not to reveal the anxiety spiraling within me. “I can’t make it.”
“Oh, come on, Char. We’ve required the entire staff to be there. You can’t skip out. They already call you the ice queen.”
My back shot ramrod straight, and my mouth gaped. “They call me the ice queen?”
He rocked onto his toes then back onto his heels while ruefully scratching the back of his neck. “Actually, they call you worse, but ice queen is the only one of those nicknames I didn’t start.”
“What the hell, Greg!”
“Relax. It’s just a little office humor.”
I glared. “I’m their boss.”
“Exactly. Which is why you need to be at the Fling.” An arrogant smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. “Listen, just come for a little while. Make an appearance. Play nice with the patients and staff. And, if you so happen to find it in your new warm and loving, not at all icy, heart while you are there, I’d appreciate it if you could talk Rita into letting me come home.”
My glare intensified. “Are you kidding me? I emailed her step-by-step instructions on how to castrate you last night.”
He grinned. “You forget I was there to witness your surgical rotation. With your instruction, the worst she could do is give me a clean shave.” He pointedly glanced at his zipper.
I lifted my hand to halt the conversation. “You know what? I’m done discussing your testicles. I have so
mewhere to be.”
He arched an incredulous eyebrow. “Where the hell are you going? I didn’t think you had patients on Wednesdays.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know.”
“Psssh…sure.” His mouth split into a wide, toothy grin, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Seriously though. Where ya headed?”
As mad as I was with Greg for being a philandering piece of shit who had hurt my girl and cost me a damn good nurse with slightly questionable morals, he was still my friend. And being the ice queen of North Point Pulmonology meant I didn’t have many of those.
So I went with honesty.
“It’s March seventh,” I whispered.
“March sev—” He didn’t finish before the light of understanding hit his eyes. “Oh God, Charlotte. I’m so sorry.” His whole face softened, and he took a step toward me, the apology carved into his every feature. “I’m so sor—”
“It’s okay,” I said to let him off the hook. But it was yet another lie. Nothing was okay on March seventh. “I need to go before I’m late.”
He nodded sheepishly. “Okay. Yeah. Go. Get out of here.”
I stood for a few beats longer, waiting for an earthquake to hit. Or maybe a sinkhole to swallow the garage. But, when it never happened, I forced myself to my car.
And then, with an unwavering ache in my chest, I drove to my personal version of hell.
* * *
“No. Wait…I just…” With the phone still pressed to my ear, I hung my head. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
God…would this day ever end?
After I’d spent a sleepless night with Travis at the hospital, I’d walked outside to discover a flat tire, which made me late to the walkthrough with the city inspector. And then he found four violations that my contractor swore weren’t his fault. It was going to take at least a week to get everything up to code, including changes that would require removing one, if not both, of the freezers.
More time. More money. At that rate, it’d be a goddamn miracle if we opened on time.
